


Turn Green

by Ziggy_Played_Guitar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Drunkenness, Engagement, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Flirting, Heavy Drinking, I Tried, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, Jealousy, John is a Mess, Like Really Tried, M/M, Mild Gore, Pining, Posh Bastards, Scotland, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, kind of a crack fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6822526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ziggy_Played_Guitar/pseuds/Ziggy_Played_Guitar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>‘I’m engaged’</i> is definitely something John Watson did not expect to fall from his flatmate’s mouth. It was something John expect the detective to say and then giggle ‘jokes’ before returning back to his experiment. </p>
<p>But he didn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thursday: Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Kinda something I think came to me in a dream and a Tumblr picture (want to see it, I can post it next chapter if you like?). No idea what it is but, to hell with it, I'm attempting humour and it just happened. 
> 
> It **will** be endgame JohnLock however! 
> 
> Title came to me from the song; Turn Blue by The Black Keys. But turned blue to green. Ya know, green and jealously and all. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

  **Thursday: Part One**

 

‘I’m engaged’ is definitely something John Watson did _not_ expect to fall from his flatmate’s mouth during their daily routine. It was something John expect the detective to say and then giggle ‘jokes’ before returning back to his experiment. But he didn't. He continued staring at the doctor who was staring back at him waiting for the ‘jokes’ or ‘it’s for a case’ to slip out his mouth. John turned back to his paper with shaky fingers and that was that, it didn't come up again.

 

Until three months later.

 

John sits in the overly cushioned armchair with a flute of champagne held tightly in his hand. Watching as people socialise and congratulate the happy couple. He doesn't even know why he’s here, sitting in his black jeans and navy shirt as people waltz around in tuxedos that are probably worth double what he’s got on. Hell, probably double his salary.

 

But he’s Sherlock’s best man, he has to attend the long “holiday” slash engagement party in the outskirts of Edinburgh leading up to the wedding in a week’s time. Spending it surrounded by strangers in one of the Trevor’s many fancy mansions.

 

He shifts uncomfortably before downing the glass, trying not to glare daggers at Sherlock’s fiancé, who he’s only just met. He didn’t like him. This _Victor._ John didn’t know why. Maybe it’s because of his slimy smile, or the cocky rise of his eyebrow as he looks over at John. Maybe because there isn’t much to not like about him with his handsome face and politeness. Maybe it’s because Sherlock looks up at him with clear devotion on his face. Maybe it’s because he’s taller than John, _much_ talker; close to 6’6”.

 

Sneering as he watches Victor duck down to kiss Mrs Holmes on the cheek, he knows it’s because of the height. _Definitely_ the height. Nothing to do with the fact that he can give Sherlock stability with his rich life or that he’s devilishly handsome with his head of thick blonde hair and dark tanned skin contrasting nicely with his row of straight white teeth. Not to mention, his lean fit body hidden behind a dark designer suit and his light hazel eyes that seems to have made every person in the room weak-kneed.

 

John finds himself paling compared to him, like a kid’s drawing against one of Van Gogh’s masterpieces. He takes his eyes away from the couple and looks around the room, spotting only a few familiar faces in the sea of people. He’s yet to see Greg and his mysterious date he keeps going on about. John grins to himself as a waiter gives him another glass of champagne, wondering if Greg’s date is someone he knows.

 

His phone vibrate in his jean pocket, highlighting a message from Mary. John smiles softly down at the picture of her daughter and the message; first time eating Spaghetti. Mary and his marriage didn't last long after Sherlock’s stunt on the airplane, coming to an absolute end when Mary informed him that the baby is David’s, not his. They divorced soon after, John surprisingly unhurt by the events and, honestly, quite glad to be able to get out of the marriage as he soon moved back to Bakers Street. They remain friends. John even being little Angie’s Uncle John and building a weird friendship with David along the way. They’re happy, that’s enough for John to move on with his life and not dwell.

 

His return to Bakers Street was as much of a surprise to Mrs Hudson as it was to Sherlock who grinned widely at John as he helped John carry his boxes up to his room upstairs, talking rapidly about a recent case. They fell back into their old routine, as if John never left or Sherlock never faked his death. But the atmosphere was different. To an outsider no one would have noticed the change but to John, it was massive but confused him to no end.

 

Sherlock seemed to stand closer to him when examining a body, even going as far as to graze his hand with his. Not to mention the softness in his eyes and the true happy smile he gave John daily. And John didn’t mind, smiling back. Even going as far as flirting with the youngest Holmes who easily answered with a large grin on his face. It seemed _right_ , it seemed _perfect_ and John knew exactly _why_ it felt like that.

 

But Sherlock had withdrawn. Standing away from John and refusing to touch him unless absolutely necessary. It hurt. The distance unbearable. The silence deafening. The underlying tension ready to slice with the nearest knife. Nevertheless, nothing hurt more than when Sherlock informed him of his sudden engagement.

 

John‘s been numb ever since.

 

“John!” A friendly voice cuts through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. Mrs Holmes stands in front of him, grinning down at him with her wide light blue eyes framed by her white hair in soft waves down her shoulders. She’s wearing a dark green dress that drapes along the floor, holding onto her curves comfortable.

 

“Mrs Holmes.” John grins back, standing up just before she pulls him into a large hug.

 

“I don’t like him.” She whispers into his ear, not letting go of him, “He isn’t good enough for my little boy.” John pulls away with a sad smile on his face as her thumb strokes his cheek in a motherly gesture as she watches him with knowing eyes, “He’s such a fool. It should be you standing there with him.”

 

“Sherlock seems happy, Mrs Holmes. That’s all that matters. That’s all I want for him.”

 

“Oh my sweet John. Sometimes what we see deceive us.” She answers before kissing his cheek and walking away back to Mr Holmes with tears in her eyes and a slight limp to her walk, leaving him utterly confused. Mr Holmes waves at him before comforting his wife, whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

 

Ignoring her words, he turns his attention back to the crowd. Firmly telling himself that he will not ruin Sherlock’s happiness for the sake of his own, no matter what his twisted emotions tell him. If Victor is who he wants, than Victor will be who he gets. Nodding to himself, his back straightens as he starts to walk around the room, looking for anything stronger than the champagne in his hand. His eyes glance over at the top table with presents stacking high from the numerous guests and Victor’s six sisters crowding around the table with eager expressions on their face, all of them tall, blonde and tanned like their brother.

 

Spotting a waiter coming towards him with a bottle of champagne, he grabs it without hesitance as well as the flute already full of champagne. Grinning down at the alcohol in his hand, he resists the urge to start talking to his new friends and instead heads over to Sherlock who’s trying to catch his eye. Cursing himself mentally as he sees the Trevor sisters surrounding his friend, giggling and shouting with their brother who’s still attached to his fiancé’s arm.

 

“John!” Sherlock calls to him when he’s next to him, his friend practically pleading with him to get him away from the girls surrounding him; all of them gushing about the two of them together as a couple. John’s stomach sinks as he hears them talking, telling Victor how perfect they are together and how they always knew they’d be together even when they were teenagers and best of friends, the jealousy  kicking at his gut makes his fist clench, nearly breaking the delicate flute of glass in his left fist.

 

The sisters don’t even acknowledge the blonde as he stands next to his eccentric flatmate, watching as Sherlock turns away from him when he sees he’s going to be no use in getting the young women away; John finds himself – yet again – alone in the sea of people and pushed out of the small circle they’ve created, standing just behind Sherlock and one of the older sisters.    

 

Grinning down at his “friend”, he takes a long sip before his eyes start to scan the hall again; looking for any sign of a friendly face amongst the snobs turning their nose up at him. Still grinning to himself, he doesn’t even listen to the fact that Sherlock is actually taking part in a conversation about _the weather_ but instead concentrates on the tingling of the expensive champagne on his tongue. In fact, he’s so caught-up in the sensation that he doesn’t even notice the gasps and stares of a newcomer walking into the hall until the Trevor girls practically scream and Trevor himself greets them far too loudly and far too friendly.

 

“Claude!” People shout around him, followed by a rush of the Trevor family going to greet whoever he is. The blonde finds himself completely out of the circle now, facing Sherlock’s back as he watches his friend practically jump on the spot with excitement. His curiosity only spikes the tiniest bit before he’s back draining the last of his champagne, aware that the bottle in his hand is yet to be open and might draw unwanted attention to himself if it decides to pop loudly and fizz everywhere.

 

Frowning down at his empty glass with severe disappointment, he looks up just in time to see Sherlock pushed aside and a tall, lean figure taking his place.  _Hot damn_ is all his brain is able to do as he looks up the roughly 6 foot two body in front of him. Completely mesmerized. A head of thick raven black hair catches his indigo eyes first, falling just below the man’s nape and slicked back in soft waves, contrasting strongly with his naturally bronzed skin and highlighting the chocolate brown eyes staring back at him surrounded by thick dark lashes. Eyes scanning over his harsh cheekbones and his perfectly sculptured aquiline nose splattered with numerous dark freckles. Before John’s attention falls onto the sensuous rosy lips, the lower lip plumbed and moist as one of his pearly white teeth teases it gently with a soft bite.

 

His eyes finally follow the sharp chiselled jawline (matching his chiselled cheekbones) and the pointed chin. Despite knowing that he’s staring a bit too long at this “Claude”, John can’t help his eyes continuing from the face down the prominent Adam’s apple, following the strong neck muscles contracted against his skin. His body’s covered by a perfectly tailored navy suit, clinging to his broad shoulders, bowed back and thick strong thighs. John’s slightly gutted that he can’t see the man’s arse but shakes the thought away when he realises a tanned hand is stretched out towards him; long, veiny hand open towards him.

 

He decides that the man is definitely a dancer, judging from his figure and light stance as he grips the man’s long, firm hand in his own calloused hand, “Now who are _you_?” The man purrs, dark eyes slowly dancing over John who shifts slightly in discomfort. He knows his body isn't like it used to be, his thick hard muscles aren't nearly as prominent as when he was in the army but ever since Sherlock’s irrupt announcement he’s found himself doing random activities to get away; rugby, running and the gym were the main activities he took up.

 

With the amount of exercise he’s been doing in the short amount of months, his lack of appetite and muscles still being there from running around London after Sherlock, he’s found his body slowly turning back to its fit state. But still, Claude’s predatory glaze is enough to turn bloody Ryan Reynolds or Alexander Skarsgard into a nervous puddle of self-consciousness.

 

“John. John Watson.” He answers back, subtly standing up a bit straighter against the taller man. Very aware that he has to tilt his head upwards to meet the curious stare.

 

“ _Pleasure_.” He grins back, eyes alight with fierce playfulness. John’s mindful of the fact that people are watching, that the Trevor sisters are whispering to each other, that their hands are gripping each other’s far too long. John finds himself grinning back at the filthily attractive man in front of him, not caring that the few people he knows around him know him as _not-gay-Watson_ and that Claude is so far out of his league, that he feels like the Scottish football Premiership League.

 

Totally shit.

 

“I do hope you’re willing to share that.” He continues, letting go of his hand. John sure when he moved his empty glass into the same hand of the heavy champagne bottle until the dancer’s eyes flicker down to the bottle with an impish smile.

 

Frowning down as the still sodding closed bottle, his eyes flicker back up to the younger man in front of him, surprised to find him already looking at him with his eyes scanning John’s face intensely, “Well, no, I wasn't.” John answers bluntly, a bit put off by the staring and feeling even more out-of-place against Claude’s designer suit and expensive smelling hair-gel.

 

Everyone staring doesn't help as well.

 

Claude’s booming laughter nearly makes him drop the bottle of champagne as he looks up at the man with a surprised expression, he didn't even know he was  _that_ funny. Judging from the other surprised looks around them, they didn't know he was _that_ funny either. The looming figure of Trevor interrupts him coming up with a funny remark to see if this ridiculous dancer in front of him either just likes bluntness or has a strange sense of humour.

 

“Claude,” Victor begins, giving the blonde a quick distasteful glance before patting the dancer on the arm to get his attention, which is firmly placed on John as he giggles softly, “Claude, do you remember Julian? Well he’s here today.”

 

The dancer seems ready to argue with the groom but with a quick huff he nods at Victor to lead the way, a quick wink and a ‘I’ll-see-you-later’ purred and directed at him before he vanishes into the crowd, giggling girls following him.

 

Sherlock stares at him, head cocked to the side and sharp eyes turned into slits as Claude leaves the space that was blocking his view to the small group of Trevor sister and his flatmate. Raising an eyebrow back at him, Sherlock frowns back before turning dramatically and following his fiancé.

 

Yet again, leaving John lost in the crowd with his champagne as his only friend…

 

**X-X-X**

****

_You’re shitting me! Fucking Mycroft Holmes!_ John mentally shouts to himself, watching Greg and his FUCKING DATE i.e. _Mycroft_ fucking _Holmes!_  

 

The blonde is pretty sure his staring is obvious but he doesn’t care, the only thing on his mind is the repetition of every time he’s been in the presence of Mycroft and Greg at the same time. Trying to come up with some kind of sense to the couple sitting together across and a couple seats down from John. He watches the way they subtly look at each through their lashes like love-sick teenagers and the way Mycroft utters _Gregory_ instead of the shortened and easier version of Greg _and_ the way the Inspector stutters. Every. Single. Time.

 

Mrs Holmes taps his knee softly before starting an easy conversation with Trevor’s mother and his sisters further down the table, giving John an amused smile. John breaks away from his staring to drain his glass of wine and reaches for the bottle of red in the middle; ignoring the disapproving glare he gets from a woman down the table and firmly telling himself that he will not look over towards the sickly sweet couple again.

 

Filling his wine glass near to the rim he begins to devour it, staring at the three empty seats in front of him with disappointment. Everyone else around him on the long table (very much like Hogwarts he giggles to himself) are busy talking, excluding him John finds as he looks to his left to see the woman next to him practically has her back turned to him. The happy couple are busy talking with Mummy Holmes and Trevor’s family, Sherlock too far away for the blonde to talk to him without shouting over the raised voices.

 

Shaking his head, he finishes the rest of his glass of wine and starts to fill it again; the woman’s disapproving gaze still on him. Purposely keeping hold of her stare, he gulps most of the wine down before she turns away with a sneer, leaving John grinning – dazed – to himself as he starts to feel the effects of the alcohol entering him.

 

“I heard you’re a doctor.” Startled, John looks up to find a pair of teenage grey eyes directed his way, “An _army_ doctor as well.”

 

Looking down at himself before looking back at the teenager sitting down on one of the empty seats in front of him, an innocent smile on her glossy lips and a small white wine in her delicate grip. “Well, yes.” John stutters back, frowning at her as she ignores the disapproval looks the snobs around them are giving her for talking to a _working-class_ fella like him. 

 

“What’s it like in the army?” The teen asks bluntly, learning forward in her seat with her elbows rested on the tables which John is sure is one of them table manner things. Smiling softly at her, opening his mouth to reply to her, he’s interrupted by another girl sitting in the other empty chair in front of her, identical to (John guesses) her sister.

 

“You can’t just ask that, Meredith!” The girl gasps, sending an apologetic glance to the blonde before turning her fiery eyes onto the other girl, her long red hair hitting the man next to her in the face as she swiftly turns, “He might suffer from PTSD or nightmares! We don’t want the poor old man having some mental breakdown in front of us! Think before you act, stupid!”

 

Avoiding the use of the word _old_ and swallowing the argument that he’s only _forty-two_ , instead he finishes his glass of wine and watches as Meredith messes with her dyed pastel blue locks, grey eyes never leaving him. The red-head continues shouting at the girl, snatching a glass of abandoned champagne and draining it.

 

“It’s brutal.” John finds himself answering, breaking off the red-heads rant, “You’re constantly in fear, constantly in need of comfort, constantly on alert. Always thinking about if that bullet with your name on is finding you today or tomorrow or next month. Yet, you’re part of a large family. Together until the day you fall.”

 

“Cool.” She replies, eyes bright with excitement and John can’t help but see her as a younger version of him, years ago when he asked the very same thing to a new family friend. John smiles at her as she continues talking to him about her mother and how she won’t let her join the army and how her dream is to be shot and bombed at, thriving in the danger and fighting for her country. John, for once in a very long time, feels like his teenage self as he ignores the gossip and angst around him and concentrates on the young version of him in front of him.

 

“Seriously, Claude! How the hell to get your arse looking like that. Bloody ridiculous.” The red-head speaks up for the first time, just as waiters begin to filter through the hall with ridiculously small meals. Katie John thinks her name is from what he’s heard from her twin sister.

 

Looking up from the prawns in front of him, he finds his eyes landing on said very delicious, very round bubble butt. Swallowing the spit in his mouth as the suit trousers cling to the shapely legs in front of him like a second skin he’s almost tempted to ask him for his tailor’s number so one) his arse can look just as good in a suit and two) to complain that their measurements are a bit off. But instead observes the way Claude takes off his suit jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair.

 

The white shirt clutches the man’s firm biceps as if it’s a life line and shows the faint outline of dark nipples. Blinking slowly, John’s eyes skim over the buttons only just holding the shirt together before dropping yet again the very dramatic curve of his back and that bloody _bubble-butt._

 

“I’d kill for an arse like that!” She continues as said man grins down at her, patting her on the head as he turns back around ready to sit down.

 

_Depends if it feels as good as it looks_ John finds himself thinking to himself as he takes a sip of his wine, oblivious to the fact he said it out-loud until he places his wine glass back down onto the white table cloth and looks up to see Greg coughing on his wine and everyone within hearing distance looking at him.

 

“Oh god! I said that out-loud didn’t I?!” John moans, clutching his head in his hands and grumbling down at the table. Face red and hot and the sound of Greg’s choking echoing in his ears. He shouts at himself for drinking too much.  

 

“My my, Dr. Watson. Touch it and find out.” Claude flirts bluntly back as John looks at him through his fingers, only a tad shocked, seeing the faint red tint to his knife-like cheekbones even as he cockily replies. Snorting into his palms, he lowers them onto the table and cocks his head, eyes never leaving the dark ones in front of him. Unable to resist the bait of a good flirt. 

 

_You’re Three-Continents-Watson for Christ sake! Think of something flirty back!_ He squabbles to himself, easily turning from his responsible father-like persona when he was talking to Meredith to the filthily flirty solider.

 

Chuckling as he lifts the wine glass to his lips, “I don’t know. I’d like to do a lot more than just touch it.” He answers smoothly, aware that Mrs Holmes is having a laughing fit next to him and totally killing the mood whilst she’s doing it.    

 

“Aren’t you a surprise?”

 

“Good or bad surprise?”

 

“Good. Definitely good.”

 

John smiles into his wine glass and takes the smallest sip he’s done this evening, trying to seem a bit more...classy. He sinks into the flirting with ease like a priest and their faith, a gamer and their gadgets, a photographer and their camera. Comfortably leaning back with a twitch of an inviting yet charming smile on his lips. Relishing in the clear interest and attention from the attractive individual, discovering he hasn't done something like this in well…a long time. Probably before his marriage with Mary.

 

He _misses_ it.

 

“It’s nice to have someone who isn't so fancy.” Claude continues, eyes swiftly glancing distastefully at the suits around him, “Who isn't afraid to dress down and be content with it. To not feel the _need_ to dress in such ridiculous dickie-bows and sit so straight and drink so little.” As he speaks he removes the tie around his neck and unbuttons the first three buttons, “Someone who isn't so _up their own arse_ I like to say.”

 

John giggles in reply, unable to speak as the buttons reveal more of his slender neck and the prominent collarbone that John just wants to lick at like a child does with an ice-cream. The blonde licks his lips at the lack of hair before frowning at himself for relishing in the slight (big) kink he has. Blue eyes slowly looking back up at the amused (yet very much pleased) chocolate eyes.

 

“Thanks…I guess.” John finally manages to mutter back, when the choking sounds coming from Lestrade lessens and the conversation around him starts up again. Mrs Holmes is still giggle next to him though, one of her hands coming to land on his knee again.

 

With a brief smile towards John, he turns to his left and addresses the Trevor family with a cold glint to his just welcoming eyes, “A lovely reception you have here, Mrs Trevor. You’ve out done yourself for sure.”

 

“Oh please, Claude. This old place? It’s nothing compared to what I have planned for my little Courtney when it’s her time to get married…”

 

And just like that, John found himself blanking out the mundane talk. Looking down at the prawns on his plate, a sickening twist to his stomach appears when he looks at the black helpless eyes of the poor prawns. Glancing at the people on his left, he hears the crunching and the shell hitting the plate before watching them eat the poor thing. Holding back a gag, he keeps his eyes off his plate and reaches for more wine instead, beginning to wonder if his bottle of champagne is still in the fridge.

 

“Do you need help?” Meredith asks from across the table, eyes glancing down at his prawns before back to his face.

 

“Oh! No, thanks.” John smiles back, “Do you want them? They aren’t really my thing.”

 

“Vegetarian.” She answers as an explanation with a shake of her head, “Tell me more! You know, about the army and being a doctor and being bloody awesome!”

 

Sending her a crooked grin, he quickly looks up at the top of the table towards Sherlock to see him already looking at him. His eyebrows are scrunched together, eyes in thin lines, hands clenched over his knife and fork and curls looking oddly frazzled. His normally collected face is twisted into a complicated mask of confusion, annoyance and is that _jealousy?_ Shaking it off and giving him a forced lipped smile just before Victor turns to Sherlock and runs a gentle finger over his fiancé’s hand.

 

Sherlock’s face melts into sickening sweetness as he turns to his lover and plants a kiss squarely on his lips, not another glance towards John. Leaving the blonde to turn to Meredith whose eyes are set on Sherlock intensely and a burning sadness starting behind his eyes…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Thursday: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’ll live.” John replies, smiling back at the white smile aimed his way, “They have animals on, I couldn’t resist. Want one?” 
> 
> Chuckling, he edges closer, his sharp features highlighted by the glow of the moon through the patio doors, “When I need a plaster, I’ll come straight to you, doctor.” Turning to the fridge, John feels his eyes on him even as he turns back around, bottle of champagne from earlier in his hand. 
> 
> “I have the feeling you’ve been here before. Know any places where I can hide and drink in peace?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Gore/War description.
> 
> Blame John's new sudden act of violence and the angst on my anger whilst writing this; Neighbours and College are dickheads!

 

 

**Thursday: Part Two **

 

John can’t believe this.

 

OK, so maybe it’s been a couple hours since the five course meal (bloody five courses!) were served and he’s drank a good bottle of wine since then. Despite his Watson tolerance of alcohol, even this much is making him intoxicated and a bit out of control with his emotions.

 

But this poncy bastard deserves it.

 

Questioning his military status with his group of fancy business men behind him, laughing and agreeing with him. Saying he’s “too small” to be a bloody solider, that he’s made up all his stories because of his “deranged” mind because anyone who hangs around with Holmes is deranged, that he was probably only there for a warm hole to fill and if he was given a gun he probably wouldn’t know the end to the handle. As if _they_ would know, John seethes at himself, shooting bloody foxes on their pedigree horses.

 

But what really sets the blonde off is their utter lack of respect to one) their friend – Victor – who clearly adores them and two) the disregard they openly show towards John’s “fake” army buddies. They sneer and giggle as John tries to ignore them and tell Meredith about his close friend – Francis – and the times he used to sing for them when their optimism was low or that he used to take the piss out of himself to lighten the mood of the camp or his utter love for running, always first when training.

 

Meredith and Katie snap at them but it encourages the immature fuckers as John tightens his hand on the glass of water in his grip and grits his teeth together. Knowing that if he was half as sober as he is, he wouldn’t of snapped but with their bloody piss-taking, the lovey-dovey couple making out in the corner and Claude not helping his sexual frustration as he dances seductively with Mrs Holmes. It was bound to happen.

 

The glass in John’s hand shatters as the pricks laugh boisterously about the soldier’s making up their mental health for attention and taking the mick out of Francis, coming up with disrespectful and ridiculous ways he “might” have died. The sound of shattering glass is drowned by the live orchestra but it draws the attention of the main prick back to him.

 

With one quick glance towards Sherlock to see him still in battle with Victor’s tongue, he takes a deep breath to calm the rising sea of red in his vision and the painful pulling in his chest. He can feel the concerned looks from the twins next to him as he clenches his eyes shut, his left hand starting to tremble and his shoulder tensing painfully.

 

“Francis,” He growls out, voice low and dark and totally unrecognisable as the image of Sherlock and his fiancé sits in his mind, “Francis Howard, not Freddie or Fergus or Fatima; Francis.”

 

“Fanny, Fergie, Flick. All the same. All don’t matter.”

 

Ignoring the blood dripping from his palm where a piece of glass has cut it open, he uses his other hand to rubs his eyes and attempt – again – to calm the rage fuelled by his wine brain. But their words echo in his head and just knowing that when he opens his eyes again to look across the hall he’ll see the man he loves with another, it does nothing but add more fuel to the fire.

 

“What would you know about hard work?” John finds himself speaking before he can even think about biting his tongue.

 

“Excuse me? Who’s the one in a designer suit and with a four by four? And who’s the one in years old jeans and unable to afford a flat on his own without a flat share?”

 

“Who’s the one living off Daddy and who’s the one that has done nothing but work since he was thirteen?” John replies, standing up from his armchair suddenly and stepping forward, fists clenched yet a smirk on his face.

 

 _At least the guy has the courtesy to blush_ , John grins to himself. Unable to stop the slow grin from spreading across his face. He knows by the step they take back that it’s feral. The guy still has the sodding guts to cock his head to the side though, smirking down at him over the perch of his nose.

 

“Francis Howard.” John starts, voice commanding and loud, easily taking over the orchestra who Mrs Trevor seems to be shushing so she can listen in, “A fellow teammate of mine. My friend. A bloody good solider. A runner. A fast bugger at that. The best sodding runner out of my whole regiment. You wanna know how he died? Of course you do. Human curiosity.

 

“Beers. That’s the only reason I’m alive now. I went to get beers for the lads. Next thing I know, the building I’m in fucking blows up and I’m holding Francis is my _fucking_ arms.” His voice breaks but he continues anyway, losing himself in the memory nearly ten years ago, “Blew Francis’s body all over the place. Pieces of him are everywhere, all over me and he’s laying there screaming the sodding place down.

 

“I’m tryin’ to get him off, you know, my friend’s pieces that are sticking and covering me and I’m trying to put him back together. I’m puttin’ his insides back inside him but they keep slipping out, why the fuck won’t that stay in? Nobody would help. Nobody would help!” He’s getting hysterical now but with a deep breath, he’s impassive again, stepping closer to the poncy bastard in front of him, wanting to him to  _shut the fuck up,_  “He keeps saying “I wanna go home, John. I wanna go home!” He keeps calling for me. “I wanna go home, Johnny. I wanna go running. Wanna run along the beach.” And I say “With what? I can’t find your fucking legs! I can’t find your fucking legs!””

 

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes before reopening them when he has a firm hold on his hectic emotions, blaming his sudden emotional state on the alcohol. John’s standing nearly nose to nose with the suit covered man, whose watching him with wide eyes. Disgust flickers over his face as the blonde grabs the man’s white shirt to wipe his bleeding hand on. The faint echo of people sobbing register in his ears as he becomes aware that the few people left in the hall are now silent and watching.

 

“Do you know how much this suit is worth?” The lad shrieks when he looks down at the blood mark John’s handprint has left. He’s rather pleased with it himself, “It’s worth more than you own!”

 

“Good job Daddy can afford it then.”

 

He steps aware from the guy as he spins on his feet, blushing and swiftly walks out of the hall, leaving John grinning in his empty spot and feeling oddly thrilled. The group of lads behind his main victim now nod his way before doing their own thing, the live band now playing again. John doesn’t look up to see if Sherlock is watching but instead grabs the napkin that Meredith hands him with a beaming smile.

 

“You just quoted Rambo, didn’t you?” She giggles as he carefully adds pressure to his shallow cut, a bandage should be enough for now.

 

“More or less. It happened pretty much the same.” John answers abruptly, feeling like his last drink was far too long ago. Nodding his head towards her in a polite ‘goodnight’, she repeats the gesture back as he tries his very best to leave the hall unannounced. Only sneaking a glance at Sherlock to see him, unsurprisingly, still with Victor.

 

Surprisingly, not lip-locking. Unsurprisingly, not paying the slightest bit of attention to John.

 

Swallowing his spit, he leaves the hall without a backwards glance. Heading swiftly to the kitchen, he remembers the first aid kit above the fridge when he went to put his warming bottle of champagne away. Gingerly wrapping his palm with a bandage and debating if he should put one of the animal plasters on that are staring up at him, he closes the first aid box with a couple of the plasters in his hand.

 

“Stealing now are we, Dr. Watson?”

 

The soothing voice cuts through the silence of the kitchen gently, only causing John’s shoulders to jump slightly in surprise.  He shivers from the deepness of the voice, with the faint foreign edge that has John curious. The hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck stand on end as he wishes he could sink into that voice and fucking _roll_ in it.

 

But John frowns at himself in utter stupidity and turns to the dancer standing in the entrance of the kitchen that’s about the whole size of 221B. He blames it on the fact he hasn’t got laid in _far_ too long.

 

“They’ll live.” John replies, smiling back at the white smile aimed his way, “They have animals on, I couldn’t resist. Want one?”

 

Chuckling, he edges closer, his sharp features highlighted by the glow of the moon through the patio doors, “When I need a plaster, I’ll come straight to you, doctor.” Turning to the fridge, John feels his eyes on him even as he turns back around, bottle of champagne from earlier in his hand.

 

“I have the feeling you’ve been here before. Know any places where I can hide and drink in peace?”

 

He passes John and heads towards the patio doors, opening them wide before stepping outside and embracing the humid air. John follows him blindly, not realising until they’ve reached what looks like a barn that he’s trusting this man, not even knowing him for 24 hours. John shivers at the thought, knowing that Sherlock is the only other person who he’s trusted so quickly.

 

He begins to wonder why.

 

With Sherlock, he showed John a new way to look at the world, dazzled him with his deduction skills. John had just instantly blended with Sherlock, fitting into his work and life with ease, even before moving to 221B. Plus, he’s seen something in Sherlock, saw how alone he actually was, saw the layers he put up around him, saw the labels he put on himself to keep others away. And John, being stubborn, decided he wanted to break down them walls. With it, falling in love.

 

But this is Claude. Someone who doesn’t have special deductive powers, who hasn’t made him run across London with him. No, all Claude has done is drawn his attention off Sherlock, if only for a couple minutes. Made him forget about his mess of a life, his inexistent sex life, his smashed and abused heart and unconsciously, John has trusted him. With just a couple flirty words, a couple hidden glances and passionate looks, Claude has drawn John in, made him curious.

 

John thinks he might be a little bit more fucked up than he originally thought.

 

And that maybe he’s thinking more with his cock than his brain.

 

He lowers himself next to the dancer on the roof of the barn after climbing the dainty stairs (and totally not checking the dark-haired man out).  The champagne is still cool in his grip as he grins towards the younger man before uncorking it and moving his legs swiftly when it bubbles over. John eagerly laps up the bubbles, licking the stickiness from his hands and ignoring the wet patch its cause on his trousers.

 

“You’re so refreshing.” Claude speaks after several moments of silence.

 

John turns to him, eyes wide, tongue still lapping the liquid off his fingers. Claude is already looking at him, eyes on his sticky hand. Realising he must look childish, lapping his fingers up like a dog and grinning at the bubbles. But there’s no judgement in his eyes, only clear and utter joy.

 

“Minutes, days, years I’ve spent time surrounded by the people in there. My work is time-consuming, often results in me being with even more people like that. But, you. You have no idea what it’s like to meet someone so…different from those people in there. You’re just so relax. You just don’t give a shit.” Claude grins, “Thirty-Two years and I’ve only _just_ met someone who isn’t so...”

 

“Snobby? Posh? Got a stick up their arse? Fancy?”

 

“Yes, all of them.” Claude laughs, raising a timid hand for the bottle, “Are you going to share now we’ve got to know each other a bit or are you a take-me-out-on-a-date-first-no-funny-business-till the-third-date kinda guy?”

 

Placing the bottle in his grip, John lies back onto the roof, eyes on the stars and moon above him. Relaxing into the easy, comfortable silence and the peaceful company. He likes the fact that Claude doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence. He just looks out amongst the fields and sky around them, forearm rested on his upright knee, bottle loosely in his hand whilst his other leg stretches out before him, hand massaging his thigh muscles.

 

John likes it. Finding himself lulled to sleep by the guy’s soft breathing and the bats flying around them. He hears the sheep around him settling for the night and the faint echo of the music seeping through the building a good half a mile away from them. John can smell Claude’s rusty aftershave along with the refreshing smell of a nearby river and horse manure.

 

“What do you work as then?” John asks after a couple minutes relishing the country feel, finding that he actually misses the peaceful environment of the country.

 

“You haven’t heard of me before? I’m hurt, doctor.” He fakes a gasp his way before looking back out over the fields, “I’m a dancer, ballet more than anything but I do a bit of everything. Coming to an end though now, my career that is, too old to do it forever. My knees aren’t as they were.”

 

“That’s how you met Trevor then? Through dancing?” John asks, unsure.

 

“Kind of. We went to primary school together, before going to different private schools. We went to weekend dance lessons together though, kind of kept our friendship going through that. Well, I say friendship. More like obsession on Victor’s side and an acquaintance on my side.” He take a swing of the champagne, nearly downing it all in one before handing it over to John, who waves it away, eyes never leaving the sky.

 

“Were you there when Victor and Sherlock met then?” He questions, blushing in the dark, “What were they like? Were they together then? What was Sherlock like? Clever then? Did he have his cheekbones? And his curls? Or his coat? Did he have his coat? Was Victor ridiculously good looking?”

 

Claude watches him for a moment, head cocked to the side and a sad smile playing at his normally playful lips. John doesn’t like it. It makes the younger man seem older than he is and it doesn’t quite suit his face. So John tries to smile, play it off but it must come off shaky as the dancer’s expression doesn’t change.

 

“My wife’s jealousy is getting ridiculous. The other day she looked at my calendar and wanted to know who May was.” Claude mutters to him, dark eyes not leaving his, sending a quiver through him.

 

“You’re married?!” John shouts, sitting up and almost falling off the roof. He steadies himself and tries _not_ to think about the disappointment bubbling in his gut.

 

“No,” He replies softly, fingertips caressing the bottle of champagne sensuously, “I read it online somewhere, a long time ago. I thought it was fitting.”

 

“Fitting? How?”

 

He pauses, eyes flickering all over the blonde’s face. Taking in his nose, his hair, his cheeks, his eyes, before landing on his lips that are moist and red from his constant licking, “Never underestimate the power of jealousy and the power of envy to destroy. Never underestimate that.”

 

“Another one of you quotes?”

 

Claude nods, eyes following the curve of John’s neck. Eyes so intense and _hot_ that John isn’t sure whether to strip, give an equally hot look back or run. One of his tanned hands comes out slowly, hesitantly moving forward until it’s a hairsbreadth away from John’s cheek. A shadow of a caress.

 

“Think about it, John. You’re smart, far smarter than that flatmate of yours gives you credit for. Find me when you figure it out…” His eyes look up before he takes a sniff at the air, hand dropping away from John’s face and landing back in its owner’s lap, “It’s going to rain soon. We should head in. Don’t want the two best-men getting ill.”

 

“What are you? A bloody walking, talking weather app?” Sarcasm, always something comfortable for him to rely on when he’s out of his depth. He helps himself up when Claude gets up, aware the mischievous glint has reappeared in his new friend’s eyes.

 

“Maybe I am.”

 

John can’t help it. He laughs.

 

He laughs like there’s no tomorrow. Like he doesn’t have the start of an oncoming hangover.

 

Like in a week’s time, he won’t have to stand in front of everyone and wave Sherlock off to another. Someone who isn’t him.

 

Clutching his side and struggling to breathe the half mile back to the house, which is now eerily silent.

 

He nearly pisses himself when it _does_ start raining, feet away from entering the house. Claude joining in until they’re a giggling, drunken mess on the floor. Laughing at nothing but rain splashing down on the patio doors and the plasters that have somehow found their way from John’s pocket and into his fisted hand.

 

It isn’t until John – still laughing – is curled up in the guest king-size bed, Sherlock a room away from him, sleeping with his fiancé that John grasps that this is the first time he’s felt so carefree since…well…since Sherlock’s suicide.   

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: [here](http://ziggyplayed-guitar.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: [here](http://ziggyplayed-guitar.tumblr.com/)


End file.
